


the only ones who are getting paid

by Etherea



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Feminist Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sex Work Is Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24644926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etherea/pseuds/Etherea
Summary: Jaskier vaguely remembered his days as a proper gentleman. Not many things could tempt him back to it, but a good bed? That was definitely in the running.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61





	1. I'm doing what I've always done for free

**Author's Note:**

> In Which The Author Is Unkind. Kindness to follow in Chapters 2&3

Innkeepers tended to be a snotty lot. Their reception changed like the seasons depending on where they were - performances in mage-shy backwaters rarely brought them any gratis lodgings, just a watery ale and an early ousting from their ground floor lodgings. A good harvest year had them drowning in praise and coin, given the room with feather-topped mattress like a proper gentleman. Jaskier vaguely remembered his days as a proper gentleman. Not many things could tempt him back to it, but a good bed? That was definitely in the running.

It was an inn somewhere in between these two extremes that they found themselves now, Jaskier playing his heart out for a middling crowd. Their deal was only to trade song for supper, though from the hungry look the inkeep, Termic, had given him, it seemed pretty certain he could wrangle the lodgings free too if Jaskier offered himself up after supper. His mouth opened doors, one way or another. Geralt tended to get a bit snippy about that. A bit rich, coming from a man who frequented whorehouses as often as the Witcher did, to look down upon a man for paying with the coin of his body.

The crowd was only enthused enough to stomp their feet during the most rousing of songs, and perhaps sing along to the chorus of his catchier tunes. He worked the room like a lady with an untested lad on her hands, coaxing energy out of embarrassed bodies, showing them the next steps with the rise and fall of his notes, letting them fumble their way through “hey nonny nonny” nonsense, and the tunes you could whistle, gaining confidence. At last when he ended on Toss A Coin, the uproarious applause brought the ghost of a smile to Geralt’s lips. Jaskier thought he even saw his companion give a curt nod, acknowledgement of a battle well fought and won. He grinned and ducked his head, setting about collecting the coins that had been tossed to him. Nobody ever actually tossed them at the Witcher.

Sidling into the kitchen, lute on his shoulder and loot in his purse (hah, there was a song in there somewhere!) Jaskier set about wheedling room service for their late supper from the staff. An inn’s kitchen was never still, but it was occupied now by just one commanding cook, “Mistress Rill, and I’ll thank you to mind the title,” feeding the breadmother and grinding grain for the next morning’s porridge. She was scowling. Oh, that would never do.“All’s well for you, young buck, flouncing about on stage and then off to bed. I’ve a full night’s work to do and a few hours to do it in. All these layabouts come in drinkin’ an’ spittin’, they make such mess tis hardly worth me time to undo it before y’cause it all again on the morrow! Don’t go thinkin’ yer flirtin’ yer way into special service, let alone me skirts!”  
Jaskier looked on as she swept too and fro, scraping plates and hauling enormous iron pots. Lush rolling curves belied confident strength, and his hands found his lute before his mind had quite thought the plan through. No matter. He strummed a few chords, watched her move, and found himself singing the words as they came to him.

She moves like a dancer so light on her feet  
Not a man here among us could handle the heat  
Hold me o’er the hearth, oh my sweet  
Roast me for hours til i’m fall-apart meat

Mistress Rill stopped where she stood, holding a tray of heavy earthenware plates, mouth agape. Jaskier quirked an eyebrow, and prayed he was not about to get them kicked out to the stables. To his relief and satisfaction, she bursts into laughter.  
“You’ve got me sized up good and proper, Bard! You and I both know I’d sooner roast your meat than eat it!  
Jaskier curtsied, startling a further burst of lovely laughter from Mistress Rill. “I feared as much, my lady. Alas, it is my loss. These small towns are cruel to those among us with rare gifts such as yours. Have you a supplier of beans for the flicking?” She scoffed and threw a cloth at him, but was still smiling, and promised to send up two plates to their rooms.

* * *

Pleased with himself beyond all sense of proportion, Jaskier trotted out to the inn’s privy. A piss trough was sculpted into the clay-lime cladding of the exterior, and he was grateful to not have to brave a smelly indoor outhouse in the dark. Breeches undone, he whistled as he pissed, playing with melody for Rill’s little tune, and it was when he was tucking himself away he heard the sound of the inn’s side door open and bang closed.

“All yours, my friend, I’ll be but a moment with my instrument case.” Jaskier was still fumbling with the laces, fingers drunk less on ale and more on the fatigue that comes on as a performance’s high ebbs away. He was wobbly and baffled when unfamiliar hands took his, and a weight pressed him against the outhouse wall from cheek to hip.

“All mine indeed,” came the voice of the innkeeper, whose bulk kept the foggy-brained bard pinned as one hand came up to play in his hair, leaving its stale-beer smell in its wake. “Don’t think I didn’t see you swiping extra ale and crooning sweet nothings to that harpy in the kitchen. I paid in goods for your mouth and hands to sing your songs and play your instruments, now you can use them on mine.”

Jaskier summoned a laugh, as light as he could manage, and twisted around to face him. _Ah, there’s that performance adrenaline rushing back again, heightening the senses._ The rough wall scraped his ear as he turned, breeches flapping open as the laces were tugged by gravity and his... _employer._ His earlier musings about further negotiations for a free room were crushed under those rough hands.

“Friend, I’m not classically trained on that kind of flute. Certainly, I dabble in private, but I’m in no state to perform for a crowd like this.” He gestured extravagantly at the empty, muddy yard, nudging and pushing at the hulking man to no avail as he tried to get him to joke, laugh, ask for a song, go back inside, take his hands off him.

“Oh, you’ve a silver tongue for the icy kitchen bitch and none for me? Sing for me, bard.”

Whatever tune Jaskier had intended to sing to get himself out of this pickle was choked off, quite literally, by a sweaty hand around his throat. Another was groping at the opening of his breeches to take what he would, under marginally more romantic circumstances, have been quite happy to give. Cold crept over him, and the yard spun slightly. He fancied he was floating slightly away from the interaction, his protestations in voice and body fading into stillness and silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor cinnamon roll Jaskier! 
> 
> Chapter 2 coming 14/6/20


	2. I'm not selling my body, I'm renting parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was dealing with it.”  
> A grunt conveyed disbelief.  
> “I _was_.”  
> “Like a mouse deals with a cat by getting its guts ripped out?”

The feeling of being pushed once more against the rough wall was somehow distant. A pea under the metaphorical pillow, though he couldn’t recall any storybook princesses getting quite this harsh a treatment. His right arm was yanked up behind his back, and it seemed as though it would hurt later, though he couldn’t quite feel it now. An angry “Hands to yerself if ye won’t use em as I say,” rattled in his ears. There’s the other beery hand yanking at hose and breeches, leading Jaskier to curse his love of these puffy sleeved jackets. A tunic might at least have kept his arse warm while this happened. He stilled, not wanting to jolt the shoulder that already threatened to dislocate. That could put him out of work for weeks until it properly healed. Not to mention hinder his ability to keep up with Geralt. Disobedient eyes refuse to close, so he tried to picture being somewhere down the road, in a smelly bedroll with potted rabbit and saltfish for supper. It worked not at all. His panic-heightened senses pulled him ceaselessly back to the rough wall scraping his cheek, the rancid breath on the back of his neck, the push of unwelcome flesh against his, the sudden cold and absence of pressure. Wait. What? He blinks, and turned hesitantly. 

The Witcher held the innkeep by the scruff like a scolded pup, the back of his shirt and hair caught in a grip that may as well have been steel.

Geralt’s growls were a different tone than Jaskier was used to hearing, sounding less like loaded abbreviations and more like the rousting he’d dole out to a hunter who would leave a bear to starve in a trap. 

“Availing yourself of a service not offered freely is theft,” he intoned over Termic’s shoulder. Golden eyes met blue, and Jaskier blushed but wouldn’t have looked away for all the ale in Cintra. He held that gaze and fumbled to dress himself.

“He took my bloody profits! Coins that should have been spent at the bar, tossed at him instead! He ought to be pleased I even want to touch that soft bloodless araaaaargghhh” He trailed off on a word it’s fair to assume was going to be ‘arse’, and the sullen inkeep gurgled instead as Geralt’s knee jabbed in below his ribs. Termic dropped into the pissy mud, howling. “Y’better pack yer shit, Witcher, or I’ll drag you out of my inn me damn self!

Jaskier, having finally conquered the laces on his pants, well done, can’t wait to write the song about that achievement, waved off Geralt’s offered hand. 

Coughing and hauling in desperate breaths, the innkeeper snarled, “A bard is no better than a whore, greedy leechlings taking your coin with one hand and stealing more while you’re distracted. You can’t rape a whore.”

Geralt kicked him. Jaskier judged it to be a relatively soft kick, all things considered, and considerately placed on the jaw where it would render even the most irate muddy maggot unconscious, as it did Termic. All the while, the two companions eyes remained locked on one another.

“What the hell were you doing out here Jaskier?”

“Relieving myself, dear one. I know you’re familiar with the process because I’ve seen your prodigious skill many times in all our years together.”

“Enough fucking poetry! What were you planning to do if I wasn’t here? Call the cook out?”

“I could do a lot worse than having Mistress Rill as my knightly saviour, I tell you, she’s a buxom battleaxe if ever I’ve seen one.” Geralt, judging by his corrugated brow and still-flaring nostrils, was unmoved. Jaskier affected an exasperated expression, refusing to allow his body to shake off its pent up nerves as it wanted. “I was dealing with it.”

A grunt conveyed disbelief.

“I _was.”_

“Like a mouse deals with a cat by getting its guts ripped out?”

It always felt like he was glaring _up_ at the Witcher. There must be barely an inch between them, especially when Jaskier had his city boots on, thick-soled to lift his feet clear of the street muck. Still, when he glared at the Witcher, he had the sense of looking up at a towering angry giant made largely of chin. 

“Listen, Mister... _Fixy-pants_ , not all of us can fling off an aggressor like so much shaving foam. Some of us have our skills in other areas.” _Fixy pants? Not your best insult, Jaskier._

“Getting attacked is not a skill, you witless fuck, for all that you seem intent to develop it as one.”  
“That’s not what I meant!”

They both realised their shouting had reached levels inappropriate to a town conversation. On the road Geralt could excoriate him to his heart’s content. Here there were more rules than the Witcher could long stand, and Jaskier intended to make use of them while he could. He continued in a lower, though no less scolding, tone, “What do you think I did, exactly, when I ran away from my shitty little princess tower? A new identity with no repute to trade on, a new name I _literally_ plucked out of a hedgerow? Lodgings aren’t free, and sleeping in a meadow by the road is less fun without a bedroll or food or a big cuddly animal to snuggle. Oh don’t _look_ at me like _that_ , you know I was talking about Roach.   
“So I had no sword, much less the muscle to use it, I’d spent my last coppers on the lute I hoped would pay my way, only no one would hire me and busking in the gutter didn’t pay for shit. I’m not magically inclined, and for some baffling reason my innate charms don’t work on _everybody_. So I did the work that was there. I put it on the menu when I have to, chef’s special. He’d have kicked us out and charged us for the pleasure if I refused, or called for the guards if I’d fought, and had me arrested. Not all of us princesses have a Witcher to come and save us. If I have to agree retrospectively sometimes, well, that’s the price of a free meal. Sorry if the princess imagery fell apart a bit, that’s largely because I try not to dwell on the specifics of nights like this.” He was out of breath. He couldn't remember the last time he was out of breath. How embarrassing. And that’s twice now he’s called himself a princess. But he feels he’s made his argument watertight, so why does Geralt look like that proverbial cat with cream?

“You agree with what he said, then? You can’t rape a whore?”

Jaskier thinks he might actually explode this time, or float away, or something, because the building pressure inside his head must surely indicate some sort of gaseous buildup, and he struggles to speak and vent some of it. “What sort of scum do you take me for? I know you have a low opinion of most folks, Geralt, which is absolutely fair because they are, almost without exception, scum, but I thought...you _know..._ even if I _was_ that sort of unwiped arse of a human, I wouldn’t have survived this long on the road with you having revealed myself as such. So, no.” Was there smoke coming from his nostrils? Geralt was staring smugly again. “What?”

Geralt gestures at Termic’s prone body, kicking him idly for good measure. “That’s what he tried to do to you.”

Jaskier, for once, is speechless. Geralt presses his advantage.

“Work is work, Bard. Sword and muscle, lute and voice, cunt and curls, they’re all just tools. Pulling a cock’s no less work than pulling up potatoes. If you wouldn’t swindle a working girl to take your pleasure, why does he get to do it to you?” 

Not speechless, actually. Indignant speeches lined up inside his brain, clamouring to be voiced, but he was unable to speak.

 _The bloody Witcher isn’t_ wrong _, more’s the fucking pity. It’s just, admitting that means admitting this was something less than transactional. Or more. Fuck._

“It’s different.

“No it fucking isn’t, Jaskier.”

“It _is_. It has to be different, because otherwise it’s…”

 _Oh_ now _Geralt is mute. Now that he’s dusted off an uncomfortable truth we’d all be much better off ignoring, now he’s a fucking monk, a nun, a penitent awaiting a sign that his silent service is complete. Better not say that out loud. He isn’t much for the religious comparisons_.

Jaskier sags, suddenly exhausted. “Before you arrived it was just...a thing that was happening. I let it be something that was...just temporary. Now you’re here with your suddenly eloquent arguments, and I’m. I.” _I think I’m going to be sick,_ Jaskier thought, and then proved himself right. He turned to the side as his body rejected the meagre contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth and straightened. “If it’s not...that...I’m just bartering. It’s a trade.” 

“You’d let him rape you so you don’t get kicked out of your lodgings? Even for your piss-poor haggling talents, that’s a shitty deal.”

“ _Stop calling it that_ !”“

How many times have you let this happen to you?”

“I really don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Hmm.” 

Yes, Jaskier was definitely going to explode. “You’re the one who told me I’m so shit at fighting, I ought to run if I could, and if I couldn’t, to take the blows where they wouldn’t kill me.” _Hah. Geralt’s turn to shut up now! Alas, no, he’s talking again._

“You don’t have to lie there and take it when I’m here.

“Ah, yes, your famous propensity for rescuing damsels! Sorry for not assuming you’d trail me to the midden in the hopes of getting a peek at my dowry!”

“You’re shouting again.”

"I bloody well am not!” replied Jaskier, fully aware that he bloody well was. He continued, slightly quieter, “Will you just shut up for a minute you great brute?”

To his great surprise, Geralt did so.   
“We’ve both made excellent points. No, shut it. You’ve done idiotic things to survive, too. So, just, drop it, alright?” 

Geralt obeyed, with a grudging parting shot of “Hmm.” 

“What should we do about that?” Jaskier punctuated the end of his sentence with a kick of his own at Termic. _Oh, that does feel good_. _Maybe there’s merit in the smashy-fighty way of dealing with that sort._

Geralt snorted as they headed back into the inn.

“Leave him. If he remembers anything when he wakes up, I’ll hit him again.” 

Jaskier rather liked the sound of that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early! Whenever did I get to be such an overachiever. 
> 
> Did I write this whole thing so I could show Geralt displaying sex-work-inclusive feminism and kicking a rapist in the face? 
> 
> Yes. Yes I did. 
> 
> Chapter three will be a brief coda, ETA 18/6/20.
> 
> 1 comment = 1 kick in a rapist's face


	3. I'm making that the last time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two endings and one beginning.

The innkeeper is nowhere to be seen in the morning. Mistress Rills fills their bellies with porridge and honeyed pork steaks, and they’re on their way before most other patrons have left their rooms.

Jaskier turned the evening’s events over in his head as he walks, muting even his strumming as he worked to form the words.   
  
“If you’re so non-judgemental about sex work,” Jaskier eventually blurted out, startling Roach, “sorry, love. If you’re so fine with it, which you should be considering how many brothels give us a frequent customer discount, why did you always look so snippy when I bargained for lodging with more than my musical talents?” 

“Hmm.” Geralt shifted in his saddle, frowning.

“Interesting. Can you expand on that?” Jaskier inquired. After a long moment, Geralt did so.

“It’s not the...services you were offering.”

“Go on?”

“It’s who you were offering them to. And who you weren’t.”

And now it’s Jaskier’s turn to frown, and offer his own loaded “Hmm,” in reply.

* * *

They travel on.

Time passes.

There are monster and maidens. A mountain. 

They part.

* * *

The next time Jaskier comes by that particular inn, it’s without Geralt. He’d rather not revisit places that make him think of the bastard, but unfortunately the entire continent is tainted with memories that now leaned more bitter than sweet.

He is braced to face Termic again, and is pleased when he discovers it is helmed instead by a woman whose height and short-cropped silver-grey hair have him swooning. He is destined to be disappointed, however - she introduces herself as Kamille, and when Mistress Rill comes out from the kitchen, establishes her status as her lover by way of a protracted and noisy kiss. He shares an ale or seven with them, and discovers that after their first visit, Termic vanished quite mysteriously and suddenly. He left only a letter claiming he was retiring to a monastery to atone for his sins of the flesh, and willing ownership to Rill, whose first name turned out to be Jill. Jaskier did not tease her about this, unwilling to tempt a blow from those powerful arms. Kamille, however, recited a number of poems regarding the rhymes their names shared, and fruitlessly begged Jaskier to compose a melody for them. 

In the morning, they did not let him pay for his room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 3 days later than estimated, that's basically early.
> 
> For those playing at home: Kamille is German for chamomile, and yes I Google Translated flower names until I found one I liked, and then it rhymed, and now we have lesbian innkeepers with rhyming names, I don’t make the rules I just write the words. Despite the chapter summary I don't think there's any more left of this story to tell - just imagine good things for Jill and Kamille!
> 
> Chapter title from [Monsters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlobmO-yTPc), also from Home Street Home.
> 
> 1 comment = 1 lesbian couple living happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> Titles from [Gutter Tarts](https://youtu.be/k6xho7XB1xo) from the musical Home Street Home.


End file.
